


temper my hatred with peace

by orphan_account



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Character Analysis, F/F, I think that's it? - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Dee Reynolds, Prom Night, i love that, just in case it wasn't clear, me projecting onto dee via a nearly 10k piece, this is a character analysis centered a little bit too much around relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Is Dee a woman? Yeah. Is Dee an honest woman, a good person? No – never has, never will be. Is Dee a good woman – in the way she has always been pressured to be, meaning polite, pretty, easy-going?or, closing up for the night, dee finds herself reflecting on her adolescence, her relationship with womanhood, and the love of her life[a dee character analysis]
Relationships: Dee Reynolds/The Waitress (It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia), Ingrid "Fatty Magoo" Nelson/Dee Reynolds
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	temper my hatred with peace

**Author's Note:**

> this is so fucking long so i feel like nobody's gonna read it but (and not to suck my own dick) it's pretty dope! so i'd be really grateful if you did! i projected so hard into this one and yet i posted it, because i only get so many chances to scream about lesbian dee. this turned out to be a little more relationship centered than i'd like but i think it's okay - it also turned out a lot LONGER than i wanted, so if you do read this, thanks a million! linking my [tumblr](https://thelesbiancometh.tumblr.com/) in case someone wants to yell at me.
> 
> also, if you're in the mood, do check out the dee inspired playlist i made on [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5fc6wgWBMWb2bZHg7VulAL?si=MXGN1wSVTTW8ssDjPj3lXQ). hope you enjoy!

If she thinks about it – really sits down and spaces out and _ thinks _ – Dee has never truly felt emotionally connected to womanhood.

Is Dee a woman? Yeah. Is Dee an honest woman, a good person? No – never has, never will be. Is Dee a good woman – in the way she has always been pressured to be, meaning polite, pretty, easy-going? She doesn’t know if the answer to this question is necessarily a bad thing anymore, but everyone else seems to think so: so she leaves that one blank in the imaginary questionnaire in her head.

The boys have ditched her again, since it’s her turn to close up for the night – as per usual, but she still hasn’t brought up the fact that this has been the case every single night for a while. Truth is, she kind of enjoys being able to slump behind the bar, the drunken chatter of the few people that dared to step foot in this hell of an establishment a pleasant lull in her ears. She prefers being able to sit here and think about everything, or anything that comes to mind, which might actually be a lot worse than it sounds.

So. She thinks.

She thinks about her mother, first and foremost. It all leads back to that, annoyingly, so much so that if Dee didn’t know better, she’d think she actually misses Barbara. Her mother had been her first push towards the opposite side of womanhood, whose name is still unclear, with her ideals and her standards and her expectations. Dee was supposed to have a boyfriend by the age of fifteen. And yet, she didn’t. Dee was supposed to be thin and elegant, supposed to look poised in her tight tops and skirts and dresses. Dee wasn’t supposed to carry around an aluminum prison for most of her adolescence, the bulkiness of which looked rather unattractive under her clothes, making her look even more mannish and buff (Barbara’s words, paraphrased). Instead, Dee was skinny and full of edges, with bony elbows and long limbs that caused her to gather up her legs in the front seat of the car on her way to her frequent doctors’ appointments.

Dee was supposed to like men, and amazingly, she couldn’t even do that right.

She rolls her shoulders, the ghost of metal and lack of agency pressing on her back. In a way, Dennis had always been the daughter Barbara deserved. He was popular with the girls (later popular with the boys), he was lean and handsome, he carried around an aura of poise and grace Dee could only dream of.

So, yeah, Dee’s spiral from her relatability to womanhood started early on, which proved to be less than beneficial for her. To her credit, Dee is like a chameleon; in high school, whenever she was lucky enough to have any of the girls hang out with her, she could get her interests to vary incredibly. Dee was a fanatic of tennis, fashion, art, boybands; simultaneously, Dee was a fanatic of nothing, completely passive to the fact that her adolescence consisted of just going through the motions. Dee fell in love, Dee fell out of love, Dee liked girls that liked boys, and Dee liked girls that didn’t like  _ her; _ Dee moved on, Dee pined, Dee was completely and utterly malleable. If she wasn’t directly affected by it, she would honestly find it kind of funny. The urge to laugh has always been there, anyhow.

Instead, Dee drinks, and Dee reminisces.

* * *

Dee eyes her veins, somehow both cold and warm, with scrutinizing eyes.

“Do you think my veins are green or blue?” she voices, and Fatty McGoo stirs with her back against the bleachers.

It’s possible for someone with skin as pale as Dee’s to have warm undertones. Sure, it is. Dee’s warm all around; she has a warm personality, she has a warm aura, she has warm eyes. Dee’s just  _ sunny, _ no doubt about it, and anyone who disagrees is just a complete idiot.

Ingrid squints. “They look kind of green-ish.”

Frowning, Dee eyes them again. “No, I– I think you didn’t get a good enough look,” she leans in, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, they’re… They’re bluish, I think.”

“Oh– Sure!” Ingrid beams, sunnier than Dee could ever be. She’s sweaty, round face dimpling with the force of her smile; the smile she has on for Dee, as manipulative and bitchy as she can be sometimes. Dee almost smiles back. “Yeah, totally. Hey, listen– You know Tim Murphy?”

Dee eyes her from her peripheral vision. “Uh, everyone knows Tim Murphy.”

“Right– Yeah,” she blushes, and Dee lingers on to the fact more than she should. “Well, he, uh… I mean, I think he left a note in my locker the other day.”

Dee pauses. She doesn’t reply.

“Yeah, it said, um– It had these two boxes, you know – yes or no – and then it said ‘Will you go out with me?’” Ingrid is sweating profusely now, her excitement pouring out of her pores. “And it was signed Tim Murphy. So, I mean…”

Dee is still not looking up, busy drawing little squiggles on her skin in black ink. Her back brace feels bulky with her back against the wall, and her eye feels twitchy, and in general, Dee doesn’t feel particularly sunny today.

Ingrid stays silent for about a minute, luckily. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”

Dee looks up then, like she forgot Ingrid had ever been there, with the neutral expression she has mastered over the years. “It was probably a prank,” she says, watches as Ingrid’s face falls in real time. “I mean– It was probably Jay Ison or something. Besides– Tim Murphy was totally checking me out the other day in Chem, so… Seems unlikely.”

Ingrid stares for a little bit. It’s rare that she feels ashamed, but Dee can barely keep from blushing right now, under Ingrid’s disbelieving eyes. Dee doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Tim Murphy. She thinks he’s ugly, and she doesn’t find him funny, and she finds him too bulky and too buff. Tim Murphy’s hair is too short, and Tim Murphy is starting to grow a beard – and this would be all well and good, except Tim Murphy is a guy, and Dee is tired of lying to herself. Has she stopped? She’s not sure that she ever will, and despite everything, Dee would still like to be asked out by Tim Murphy. Just so everyone else could see that she could get him, so someone would envy her. 

“Yeah,” Ingrid finally says, excitement drained out of her. “Yeah, it was probably a prank.”

They both stare; Ingrid at the tree ahead of her, Dee down on her notebook. The same notebook in which she was nervously scribbling down not too long ago; a note of her own, similar to the one Ingrid brought up. It had been in pink gel pen, then in blue, then in black (heavy on the hearts), and instead of boxes it beared nothing else than the question at hand, which caused her hand to tremble with nerves and cause her to bite her lip raw.

_ INGRID, DO YOU LIKE ME? FROM DEE _

She liked the question, because it was malleable; if Ingrid did like her back, Dee could allow herself to lez out and agree that, yes, Ingrid, sometimes I get butterflies in my stomach when you pass me notes during class and you turn around to smile at me when Adriano does something stupid to piss Mr. McKenna off. Sometimes, I’m mean to you because I hate the way I want to continue being funny when I make you laugh, and I hate the way I blush when you blush, and I don’t really think your designs are really that bad – they’re actually damn fucking good, and I’m jealous as well as infatuated and the worst part is, I don’t hate it. But if Ingrid freaks out, Dee can just roll her eyes and clarify she meant it in a friendly way, then grind her teeth until she falls asleep. But maybe Ingrid could say she likes her, too, if life could smile at Dee for once.

Instead, Ingrid sighs: “I gotta go,” and stands up in her wobbly manner, wiping her chubby hands on her thighs.

Dee desperately wants to sagely nod along, to shut her mouth for once. “Go where?” she says instead, maintaining eye contact. “Do you have anyone else to hang out with?”

Ingrid blinks in astonishment, apples of her cheeks red once again. “Well, I… I thought I would go ask Tim about it… You know…” she nods around, uncomfortable.

Dee’s eyes widen. “Well, there’s no need, I mean… It’s not like it was him, is it?”

_ Fucking hell, Deandra, shut your fucking mouth.  _ Insanely, Dee finds it in herself to maintain eye contact, just to see Ingrid’s lip wobble just as it starts. Luckily, that’s as far as it goes.

“See you around,” Ingrid croaks, fleeing before Dee can drop another bomb.

Her eyes fall back onto her veins, and they seem unbelievingly cold this time around, so much so that it pains her to look at. Dee’s not sunny. Dee’s cold and manipulative, Dee’s a bad person and she’ll never change. The next day, when Ingrid tells her with an apathy so eerie to see on her that Dee was right after all, Dee musters up the audacity to laugh – but it feels like trying to swallow a thousand spikes.

* * *

Dee’s prom dress is straight out of a Disney movie; it’s pink, caressing her legs and feeling light and airy on her shoulders, sleeves sliding down beautifully. The sleeves are glittery, and their transparency made her smile genuinely for the first time in a while the first time she saw it, a few months ago. It has been sitting patiently, hung in front of her wardrobe, the first thing she saw when she woke up, the last thing she saw before she fell asleep. Dee had convinced Mac to take her to prom – it was fine because they both played for the same team, and no one else had had the decency to ask her anyway – and ignored him when he made fun of the length of her skirt – long and shiny and so,  _ so _ pink.

She uses the same skirt to wipe her nose off onto, back brace creaking as her shoulders shake.

“Come  _ on, _ Dee!” Mac bangs down on her door, which he had threatened to deliver a totally awesome roundhouse kick onto just a few minutes ago. Dee had snorted. “We’re gonna be late for prom, dude, come on!”

Instead of answering, Dee tries to count the freckles of glitter that had wiped down on her hand – both from her dress and her shimmery eyeshadow, running down her face along with her mascara. What a fucking waste.

“Dee!” Mac screams. “I’m getting fucking  _ sick _ of this! Look, your fucking mom’s gone, Dennis is gone – it’s just you and me in here, alright? No one’s gonna laugh at you!”

“Leave me alone!” she screams back, at which the banging resumes, louder.

“You’re the one who made me ditch Charlie for this, Deandra!” more banging ensues, at which Dee resorts to covering her ears. “Come on, you–" a pause and a sigh – Dee presumes Mac is wiping his face down with one hand. “You don’t look fat! That’s a great, uh– It suits you! The color!”

Dee snorts again. “What the fuck do  _ you _ know about colors?”

“Oh, my God, I wish I could hit girls...” Mac says to himself, a little bit too loud. Dee scrunches her nose up. “Open this fucking door! Come on, this is so  _ stupid!” _

“I don’t wanna fucking go anymore!” Dee shouts, her crying making her barely comprehensible. “Go do coke with Charlie or whatever you assholes fucking do!”

There’s no other sounds coming from the other end of the door. Dee thinks she’s won, up until a loud bang causes the wall to shake.

“God _ damn _ it!” Mac hisses behind the door, sounding awfully pained.

Dee waits for him to say something else, but speaks up when he doesn’t. “Were you aiming for the door?”

“No!” Mac rushes out, awfully defensive. After a moment, he sighs out: “Yeah…”

Dee, despite herself, bursts out laughing. Her back brace is once again creaking with the shake of her shoulders. Mac laughs, too, with his head against the door, muffled and easy. “Honestly, dude,” Dee laughs, wiping her eyes on her dress, “you can go. I don’t feel like going anymore.”

“Come on, Dee, I can’t let you do that,” Mac sighs. If Dee could, she would flop down onto her bed. “You don’t look fat. You look…” he looks for the words to use, and Dee tuts. “No, I know that sound! You look  _ great! _ Alright? You look like someone… I’d want to take to prom.”

For all Dee knows, that might be another jab at her looking masculine. “Yeah,” she laughs bitterly, sniffling, “tell that to Barbara.”

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” Mac mutters, shuffling implying he was sat on the floor. “I’m going, because I can’t even fucking see you while we argue. If you change your mind, I’m still up for it.”

“Fuck off,” Dee sniffs, even as Mac jumps down the stairs two at a time, banging the front door as he leaves. She allows herself to break down once again, her eyes painfully glued on the full length mirror opposite her bed, glued to the way her back brace bulges under her dress – what a lovely dress, such a goddamn waste – and the way strands of her hair have gone loose out of her ponytail, blonde and frizzy. The way her shoulder looks so bony under the light, and her eyes look so saggy and puffy and sad. Dee’s seventeen, and life’s already hard enough.

When her throat gets too scratchy and she opens the door to go get a soda – Diet Coke, if she wants to sleep today – Dee realizes Mac has left her corsage in front of her door, pure white and absolutely gorgeous. Dee starts crying again, tries to wear it as she ascends down the stairs, carefully, movement limited.

She spills a bit of Coke on her dress, then a bit of jam, but the corsage stays clean, camouflaged against her skin, pale pink bow shiny and sweet. Dee laughs at the thought of Mac and Charlie browsing different corsages for her, almost giving up but not quite, high on amphetamines. She’s so amused, in fact, that when the doorbell rings, Dee merely stirs.

It rings again, and again, and again, and then there’s a delicate knock, a reluctant yell of:  _ “Dennis?” _

She sits up. Faintly, Dee recognizes the voice as that chick that keeps circling Dennis lately; she remembers going to that diner down the street with him, remembers him trying to duck as Dee flagged down one of the waitresses, remembers said waitress beaming obscenely at her brother. Leaving her number on his napkin. Dee had never scored  _ one _ number, ever in her life.

Reluctantly, when there's another knock, Dee shuffles towards the door. She unlocks it with a shaky exhale, and opens it just a smidge, so that her raccoon-esque eyes are the only thing in view.

The Waitress' prom dress is red, like the lipstick that frames her smile. It drops once she spots Dee, of course, and her shoulders draw in on herself, and she doesn't look sunny anymore. Dee allows her whole face to come into view.

"Dee?" the Waitress says, disbelieving. "Jesus. Who died?"

"Dennis," Dee deadpans, at which the Waitress sighs, annoyed. "Or at least I hope so, with how fast he drove out of here."

"Drove out?" she frowns, cranes her neck to peer inside. Then, a squint. "Are you fucking with me? Come on, just tell him to come down. We'll be late."

"Late for  _ what?" _

"Well,  _ prom!" _ the Waitress scoffs, vaguely points towards Dee's attire. "Or do you always lounge around with a fucking gown on?"

"Dennis left," Dee says. It's sobering enough, but the Waitress still looks disbelieving.

"No offence, Dee – but you're not exactly the most trustworthy person in the world."

"Dennis left fifteen minutes ago," Dee presses, relentless. "Shame you missed him. You should have seen Chrissy Orlando's dress, too – sort of bluish, tinted black maybe."

At once, the Waitress' face falls. "Chrissy Orlando was here?"

"Do you want me to piece it together for you?" Dee scoffs. "Dennis went to prom with Chrissy Orlando. They had matching outfits and everything. What's not clicking up there?"

"No, he–" the Waitress is still trying to peer inside, her throat sounding clogged. Dee frowns. "He said– But he said yes! Why would he say  _ yes _ if–"

"Hey, are you alright?" Dee mutters, leaning out of the door to study the Waitress' face more clearly. Hyperventilating. 

"I'm sorry– Could I have a glass of water?" the Waitress tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, fingers trying to massage the bile down. Dee is speechless for all but a second, but then she lamely opens the door further, allowing her to step in and slowly sink down onto the settee. Dee, barefoot, gets her a glass of water, observing the Waitress' corsage as she shakily brings the glass to her lips. Red and white.

"Better?" Dee tests. The glass is on the table, and the Waitress is trying to regulate her breathing, a sheen of tears covering her eyes.

"No! Are you  _ kidding?" _ she breathes, sounding distracted. "Why would he do this? I–I asked him to prom a  _ month _ ago, and he said  _ yes! _ And now–  _ Chrissy Orlando?" _

Dee shrugs. "That's Dennis for you."

"You people are–" she stops herself, burying her face in her hands instead.

For once, Dee can agree. She and her family really  _ are, _ and whatever the Waitress was going to say probably isn’t too far off the mark – but a part of her has to think: to  _ be, _ don’t you have to  _ live, _ and subsequently, don’t you have to fight for what you want and what you believe in? Dee, for one, believes that red suits the Waitress phenomenally, and that even as she’s crying, her eyes – blue and sparkly like two little diamonds – still demand attention. Dee believes that her button nose’s redness is wasted being attributed to fucking Dennis, and some sick part of her wishes it was of her own doing – because then, at least, it would mean she would have gone somewhere with this, before shit inevitably hit the fan. Dee thinks it’s sick that she doesn’t even know the Waitress’ name, and doesn’t care to.

“Sorry,” the Waitress says, sniffed through a clogged nose. “That was rude. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dee scoffs. She leans back on the settee, foot close to touching the Waitress’ knee, trying to be comfortable in her aluminum prison. “It’s not like we don’t  _ deserve _ it.”

The Waitress laughs half-heartedly into the rim of her glass. Her hair is curly, pretty with product and so lovely it annoys her. Dee has always had a problem with distinguishing envy and attraction; it was either  _ I hate this girl because she’s better than me in every single way imaginable, _ or  _ I hate this girl because I hate the way my insides churn when she talks to me, or looks at me, and I hate how much I want to show her that I care.  _ Both of those things really shouldn’t be as similar as they are. This time, though – things are unfortunately clearer.

Reluctantly, without looking up from fiddling with the hem of her skirt (above her knee, because she dares to), the Waitress croaks: “What’s wrong with you, then?”

Dee’s hand flies up to her cheek, in a poor attempt to wipe the makeup smeared on her cheekbone, self-consciously rubbing her skin raw. “It’s none of your business,” she deadpans, palm and forearm smeared black and glittery. 

The Waitress is silent. Her arms – bare, courtesy of the spaghetti straps on her gown – are pale and skinny, and from her peripheral vision Dee can see the goosebumps on her flesh. If she wasn’t so selfish, Dee would ask her if she was cold, and she would give her one of her jackets, just to see them go past her hands – her chest would fill with pride, she would for once be glad she is as big and gangly as she is. Well, not necessarily  _ selfish. _ Dee has discovered that she is so apathetic to her own self that she can’t find it in her to care to the point of selfishness – it’s more like pride, but that’s not right either. She’ll figure it out later – numb and sleepless on her bed, lying awake and listening to the kids roaming the streets, going to prom after parties and making out in the backseat of their cars.

For now, Dee just sighs. “I was about to head out with Mac, but then Mom called me fat, so… I’m here keeping you company instead.”

The Waitress sniffles again, glancing up to inspect Dee’s stance, her dress, her tired demeanor. She clears her throat. “It’s a lovely dress.”

“Yeah,” Dee shrugs, smoothing down her skirt. “Yeah, it is. It used to be.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees the Waitress shuffle closer – she reaches out, inspects the hem of Dee’s dress with kind eyes, black nail polish nicely contrasted with her milky skin. Dee almost pulls it out of her touch. Almost. 

“It still is,” the Waitress glances up, genuinely smiles. “It looks like a wedding dress. Sort of.”

“Oh,” Dee snorts, discreetly leaning away. The Waitress sits up, and her dress bunches up around her thighs – pressed together, ankles crossed. Sceptically, Dee continues: “You know, I think it’s fucked up… What Dennis did. I mean– There’s a limit to everything.”

The Waitress tears up again, nodding as she wipes her nose on her skirt. Dee could have easily glanced under it, had she wanted to. “Yeah…” she says, in defeat. “I should have realised. I mean– He’s just not that into me, is he?”

Dee watches for a bit, because the Waitress is staring at her, and it would be a crime not to look. “How would _ I  _ know?”

“He’s  _ your _ brother. You– You guys must talk about stuff like that, right?”

“Barely,” Dee mutters, but the Waitress still looks expectant. “What do you want me to say, Waitress? It’s not a complex thing to grasp. Dennis is just an asshole– He’s an asshole who likes to see good people suffer. I mean–" she scoffs, shakes her head. “That’s the gist of it, at least.”

The Waitress smiles weakly. “You think I’m a good person?”

Dee, caught off guard, is split between staying silent and fleeing. Instead, she sighs: “You’re… You’re okay, Waitress.” She almost stops herself, but decides to continue: “Actually, no. You’re great– You’re a solid person, and I have no idea what you’re doing chasing after Dennis, because he–" she stops to take a breather, rambling too fast for her own self to catch up. “Because he is a fucking loser! He’s such a goddamn loser and everyone keeps– keeps  _ worshipping _ him and I don’t fucking get it because he doesn’t deserve  _ anyone!” _ she wipes at the spot under her eye. “He doesn’t deserve good people.”

The Waitress smiles. “Are you trying to say he doesn’t deserve  _ me?” _

“Well, don’t flatter yourself,” Dee says, shoulders slumping in defeat. “But, yeah. I guess I am.”

The Waitress titters pleasantly, pushing a curly lock of hair behind her ear. She folds her arms on top of her thighs, sniffing through the clogged snot in her nose, her smeared mascara making her look like some sort of godly oddity, the lipstick in her teeth appearing passionately disheveled; Dee’s smeared mascara makes her seem ridiculous, ugly and funny, and she isn't wearing any lipstick, because her mouth is too weird and asymmetrical to accentuate. She can see her reflection on the window behind them.

The Waitress shuffles closer, and Dee faces her again, alarmed. “Tell me more,” she pleads, desperate eyes glued on Dee.

“About what?” Dee stammers, able to smell the Waitress’ perfume. Sweet and tangy.

The Waitress stops when their knees touch, her shoulders tense and one arm behind Dee’s head on the couch, almost shaking. With her eyebrows drawn up together, she sniffs: “You really think I’m a good person?”

“Jesus–  _ Yeah, _ do you want me to say it  _ again?” _ Dee scoffs, almost melts when the Waitress nods desperately. “You’re a good person. You’re a great person– And it’s annoying at times.”

The Waitress chews on her bottom lip, torn. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

_ “What?” _

She doesn’t repeat it, but her eyes look big and sad still, expectant and dependant on her answer.

Dee reevaluates the distance between them, and begins. “Yeah,” she breathes, and the Waitress lets a breath escape her. “Especially tonight, you look…” she stops herself, but the Waitress nods in encouragement. “I mean– Red is a good color, in general. It helps.”

“Helps with what?”

Dee tries to smile as the Waitress laughs, but can’t seem to bring herself to. “God, with nothing… You  _ are _ pretty, Waitress. I don’t know what the fuck Dennis’ problem is.”

The Waitress gulps. “You really mean that?”

“You always look so nice in the diner– And it’s not fair, you know? Because– Because those uniforms they make you guys wear are so fucking  _ ugly _ and yet–" she pauses to take in the Waitress’ laugh, sweet and pleasant. “You look so cute in it. No one should look that cute in yellow.”

The Waitress has stopped laughing now.

“And I like it when you leave your hair curly like this,” she almost touches a curl for good measure, but stops herself last minute. “Yeah. It’s nice. Sort of like Shirley Temple.”

She smiles. “Shirley Temple.”

Dee, somehow, finds the courage to smile back. The most absurd thing is that this hadn’t been a mere ploy to get the Waitress off her back; she had truly meant everything and more, and if the Waitress gets any closer, she might as well unload.

“Thanks, Dee,” she breathes, nails digging into the back of the sofa. Dee can’t look away – the Waitress can’t pull back. “Can I kiss you?”

To her credit, Dee is not at all surprised. “Kiss me?” she says anyway, lips parting in subconscious anticipation.

The Waitress nods shyly. “I’ve never done it before,” she says. “No one’s said I’m pretty before.”

Dee wants to say she doubts that –  _ seventeen? _ This girl is  _ seventeen _ and she's never been kissed? – and Dee wants to smile, and Dee wants and wants and  _ wants; _ she swallows the lump down her throat, then nods shakily – at which the Waitress, sweet and timid, allows herself to tip her round face forward and press her lips to Dee’s, delivering the utmost sweetest of kisses. It lasts for about three seconds, and she keeps her lips loosely pressed together, but it still shakes Dee’s world like no other ever has. She opens her eyes as soon as the Waitress pulls away, and can’t stop herself from leaning back in; it goes much smoother this time, because she’s in the lead, and all this practice with all the boys she never cared about is finally coming handy because Dee is finally  _ feeling _ something – she feels her skin tingling, feels her fingers tremble on the Waitress’ thighs, feels a single curl tickle her cheek. She  _ feels. _

Later, the Waitress leaves – biting her lips, with not so much as a glance – and Dee remains, staring at the ceiling, hand over her red-stained mouth.

* * *

One thing Dee has learned after almost two years of working for three men is that she is totally, utterly, and painfully replaceable; and there’s nothing she can do about it.

It’s not rare that Dee has to watch as her job is threatened to be taken away from her and given to some chick that Dennis finds hot – only to become hers once again when said chick refuses to have sex with him for the money. She likes to think they’re all buddies sometimes; and they are, or so Mac insists, but being the only woman in the group can be more than lonely sometimes, more than lonesome. It doesn't help that every woman Dee meets – friend or not – is sooner or later driven away by her dependency on the group, and her need for validation by her three employers slash brothers. 

Dee's point is, she was never meant to win.

At the end of the day, though, Dee has always been able to cling onto Artemis – mostly since Artemis is known for not giving a fuck, and being able to outdo the guys in terms of oddity and delusion. Artemis has been the only contact Dee has had with womanhood in a while, and in a lot of ways the only way she's been able to keep sane as an adult woman.

Yeah. Dee thinks about all of this while slumped in a stool of a lesbian bar, heart thumping louder than she's used to.

She's tried to step out in her best lesbian attire; utility pants and a Hole shirt, nails trimmed and painted black, nervously tapping against her glass. She thanks her lucky stars any of the guys hadn't been around as she slid out of her apartment and into Artemis' car to give her hell for it, and she's glad Artemis clarified that she wasn't expecting Dee to do anything she still wasn't comfortable doing, and she's grateful that Artemis keeps taking breaks from dancing to come and keep her company, telling her about the girls she's spotted around the bar –  _ this one for you, and this one for me. What do you think? _

Dee doesn't think. She smiles when she's smiled to, she flirts when she's flirted with, she politely declines when she's asked to dance. She admires the buzzed heads and long wavy locks, the badly dyed hair and body glitter, the fishnets and combat boots. Women of all kinds, all backgrounds, all shapes and sizes: moving and dancing, laughing and grinding, beckoning her closer, telling her to stay put. It's overwhelming, being around so many women, yearning to be connected to womanhood for the first time in what seems like ages.

Artemis, on another break from grinding on five women simultaneously, pants as she slumps next to her. "I'm on fucking _ fire!" _ she groans, stealing the drink right out of Dee's hands. "Are you gonna drink that?" she asks, downing it before Dee can nod. "Goddamn it, my tits are getting so sweaty in this getup."

"Well, it  _ is _ August," Dee's eyebrows raise, pursing her mouth as Artemis sticks her hands in her top and tries to pull her breasts apart. "And you  _ are _ wearing leather…"

"Leather accentuates my natural sexiness," she tuts, flagging the bartender down for a couple of drinks. "Plus," she fixes her fishnets, adjusts her boot, "I gotta be sexy for the both of us, since you've decided to, like,  _ sit _ here."

Dee watches her.

"I'm  _ joking," _ Artemis says, matter-of-factly. She picks up her drink, "See anyone you like yet?"

Dee's eyes sweep over the sea of people, and she shrugs. "Think I'm gonna hang out for a while."

"Suit yourself," Artemis downs her entire drink, adjusts her cleavage one last time. "If you'll excuse me, the dancefloor is calling my name."

She leaves, singing the Rihanna song that's playing over the speakers, and Dee smiles to herself as she watches her. She's the most attractive person on the floor, no doubt about it, and it doesn't take long for her to attract the attention of everyone within a three meter radius. Dee watches; enchanted and envious, eyes scoping out every single person on the dancefloor for  _ the thing, _ the quality she's looking for. A part of her hopes she'll know it when she sees it, because the truth is: she's going in completely blind, wary and uncertain.

She finds it a little to the side, in the form of a repressed memory.

Dee  _ knows _ she is watching the Waitress, light and airy in a sundress, glitter across her arms and ribbons in her blonde hair – Dee can  _ feel _ that she’s watching the Waitress, can feel it in the way her shoulders go tense and her mouth goes dry. Dee also somehow can’t  _ fathom _ she’s watching the Waitress, in a lesbian bar of all places, looking free and looking angelic and looking happy. And, then, looking back at Dee.

She can’t tell if the Waitress is happy to see her, because Dee spins on her stool as soon as their eyes meet, slouching over her drink and pretending she doesn’t see the bartender eyeing her up. She seemed like a nice girl, too – a black woman; confident, shorter than her, pretty, Dee’s type if Dee felt secure enough to have a type. But how could she look at the bartender now?

She's thinking of ordering another drink, maybe bask in the attention of the bartender as a way of distraction, but she can smell the sweet and tangy perfume before someone occupies the stool next to her, and that goes down the drain.

None of them speak. Dee is thinking to herself, thinking about the time she and Charlie had visited the coffee shop down the street on a necessary break to shit on Dennis, when she had seen the Waitress had been promoted from teenage diner waitress to adult café waitress, when she had practically begged him to go somewhere else. He had always known about prom night, because Dee has a big mouth and (used to have) a low alcohol tolerance, and he understood – he took her back to the bar, cracked open a beer for her, and listened. Charlie's good like that sometimes, when Dee cares enough to notice.

But Dee hadn’t spoken to her since prom night. They’d exchanged quiet hellos in passing, silent nods in the hallways, shocked stares when Dee caught her walking out of Dennis’ bedroom shortly after graduation, carrying her shoes, ashamed, shrunk-in on herself and disheveled. Dee hadn’t had the guts to admit it wasn’t what she wanted, and the Waitress probably wanted to leave all and any interaction with the Reynolds twins behind her – for the better.

“I wouldn’t expect to see you here,” the Waitress says, finally, her tone indecipherable. Dee dwells on it, as much as she hates to admit it – well, if she were to ever admit it.

“Took the words right out of my mouth…” Dee replies, taking a sip of her drink. She faintly wishes she was holding onto the neck of a beer bottle instead – she feels that it would really drive her point home.

The Waitress is blatantly watching her, and for only a moment, Dee envies her courage. “Well, I have come to terms with myself,” she says, matter-of-factly. Dee is charging up inside. “So I don’t really know what you’re talking about, frankly.”

“And I haven’t?” Dee is looking now, terrifyingly so. The Waitress closes her mouth, watches Dee like she’s hanging off of every word that comes out of her mouth. “Why else would I be here?”

It’s elaborate enough, probably, because they both fall back into a charged silence – Dee sips on her drink, the Waitress taps her heel on her stool. The question is hanging between them, but Dee is suspecting they might be harboring different questions, perhaps – for her it’s the age long:  _ do you remember? _ In her head, it’s spoken with a calm and collected cool, a shield, just in case the Waitress does, indeed, remember and she’s faced with repressed feelings she is unable to cope with, or deal with.

“Are you here with someone?” the Waitress says, and it’s like the shoe has dropped, like some sort of bubble has burst. It’s not relieving.

Dee gestures with her drink at the general direction of the dancefloor. “Artemis,” she says, and the name puts a smile on the Waitress’ face.

“Oh…” she giggles, through the bite of a thumbnail. “So are you, like, tripping right now or something?”

Dee laughs, and genuinely so. “Nah…  _ She _ might be,” she says, shoulders relaxing as the Waitress’ laughs. “She always stashes some between her tits, even though she, like,  _ never _ wears a bra.”

“That’s good,” the Waitress comments. “Good for her.”

Dee frowns. “The acid stash?”

“No!” she leans in, comically whispering. “The tits out rhetoric.”

Dee snorts. “Are you a follower?”

“Do you wanna find out?”

She tenses up again, staring down the rim of her glass, clearing her throat. She feels the Waitress deflate by her side, and it feels fucking awful – because Dee  _ likes _ this, she likes the talking and the joking and even the bizarre flirting. But, being her, she has to put up this guard around her, and wordlessly state what her limits are – even if they aren’t what she wants them to be.

“I’m sorry,” the Waitress says, rueful. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t– I shouldn’t have said that.”

For once, Dee doesn’t let it pass. She faces the Waitress, sighs in preparation: “Okay: what’s this about?”

The Waitress chews on the inside of her cheek.

“Are you trying to prove something to yourself? Now that you’ve, like,  _ come to terms with yourself  _ – you think you can have any woman you want?”

The Waitress looks nonplussed. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she says, and Dee feels a thorn being stabbed into her side. “About  _ this. _ I miss the way we talked that night, Dee.” 

At the mention of prom night, Dee rests her head on her fist, but the Waitress quickly grabs her knee.

“No– I know you remember. I know you miss it, too,” she presses, eyes big and honest. Dee gets lost. “The way you talked to me, Dee… The way you cared! No one has talked to me so openly,  _ still–" _ she stops before she works herself up too much. Then, more carefully: “I need you to know this. Even if it leads nowhere.”

Dee is welling up, tiredly rubbing at the space under her eye as if in preparation, eyes closing involuntarily. Carefully: “And where could it lead?”

The Waitress doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look away, like she is trying to speak through the freckles on her irises, the intense baby blues that Dee had tried so hard to forget about. This woman had been her first meaningful kiss when she had only been a girl, her first meaningful discussion – and this woman stares at her with an intensity that cuts through her like a kitchen knife, leaving her bleeding out with the stored affection and care she had to stash away for when it was safe to show, sometime in the future. This time is edging closer the longer this unravels, but she doesn’t dare to look away.

The Waitress sighs. “That’s okay.”

No, it’s not, but Dee is frozen.

“I don’t know what that was,” the Waitress continues, nervously laughing into her fist. “But I’m… I’m glad you’re finding yourself.”

Dee runs a hand through her hair, rubs her nose with her wrist. “Were you dancing before?” she says, nonchalant, unable to reply.

She smiles. “I’ve had a couple of drinks, I’m not gonna lie.”

“You never had a high alcohol tolerance.”

“I’m building up a habit, I think,” she says, expression unreadable.

Dee pauses. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No, absolutely not,” the Waitress laughs. “Ah, well– Going a day without a drink is, like, getting harder by the week if you must know,” she bites her lip, gnawing at it between her teeth. “Well– I can’t go without anymore. Pretty sure I’ve built a name for myself around here.”

Dee smiles bitterly. “You’ve been a regular here?”

“Once you embrace it, you never go back,” she toasts an imaginary drink, hand aching to hold one. “One night stands with women are so much better, anyway, so. Kinda can’t stay away.”

“So you’re also a sex addict. I see.”

“I  _ so _ can’t be talking about sex with you right now,” the Waitress says. Dee laughs, for better or for worse. “Sorry, that was– You need to stop me when it’s too much. I’m not quite drunk yet, but I feel myself loosening up.”

“And that’s never a good thing.”

The Waitress’ eyes soften. “Maybe for you.”

Slumped against the bar, Dee smiles lazily into her wrist, slyly glancing back at the Waitress in a playful manner. Seriousness could kill her right now, for all she knows.

The Waitress glances at Dee’s chest region, purses her mouth as she looks back up at her. “I’ve got a Hole record at home.”

Dee follows her outside, and that’s all.

* * *

The Waitress’ apartment has barely changed over the years; it now harbors some of Dee’s belongings, but that’s about it.

Dee’s lying under the covers, with a cigarette dangling between her limp fingers, a solid weight breathing steadily atop her chest. She’s comfortable, something that has become routine over the years, but her head is cloudy with indecipherable feelings and unjustified alarm, blankly staring at the wall ahead.

The Waitress stirs on top of her, and she finds herself peering down at a couple of blurry eyes. “I thought you were asleep,” Dee smiles, pushing back some of the long strands of hair blocking her vision. It suits her like this, long and blonde and dreamy, almost doll-ish.

The Waitress hums. “I was fading in and out,” she says, goosebumps all over her bare flesh. She glances at the cigarette between Dee’s fingers, purses her mouth, but doesn’t say anything.

“What?” Dee says, even though she knows. “A cigarette after sex is, like, an unspoken rule! I’m offended you’re  _ not _ having one.”

“The day I put one of these in my mouth is the day I pick up the phone when your brother calls."

Dee laughs, juts her bottom lip out. “Aw, come on,” she says, and takes a puff off her cigarette for good measure. “Look how cool it looks,” she murmurs, then blows directly into the Waitress’ mouth. The Waitress’ lips quirk against hers. “How good it feels.”

“Put it out,” she insists, flirty and cute, and Dee has no other choice but to roll her eyes and rub it out into the ashtray on the floor. She raises her eyebrows wordlessly, and the Waitress smiles. “As a matter of fact,  _ yeah, _ I’m happy now.”

“Get fucked.”

“Done,” she plants a kiss on Dee’s cheek, which is strained with a humorous smile. Her skin tingles, and as she looks around the room and out towards the living room, she is reminded of the first time she stepped foot in the Waitress’ apartment. With a brush along the Waitress’ spine, she laughs.

“Remember the first time you brought me back here?”

The Waitress watches her.

* * *

_ Dee is looking as the ancient record player spins the even more ancient vinyl, turned down low and playing Hole's Live Through This for her, like its sole purpose of purchase had been just that. She watches as the Waitress, flushed neck and humming under her breath, fixes them both a couple of drinks in the kitchen, stealing a few glances towards the mess of limbs sprawled on the sofa now and then. _

_ Dee's shirt feels itchy all of a sudden, and it dawns on her the heaviness of her surroundings. The Waitress' apartment, fit for a young adult, is small but quaint enough, sufficient for her to sit here and drink some whiskey, wishing she had the courage to do something with this. She wants to talk tonight. _

_ "You can turn on the TV if you'd like," the Waitress calls from the kitchen, perusing the top cabinet for something. Dee eyes the tiny TV screen. "I know it's not much, but it does the job." _

_ "And what is the job?" Dee calls back, only half-joking, pulling one leg up to her chest. _

_ The Waitress doesn't reply for a moment, glasses clicking together as she fixes them up on a tray, a bowl of something tittering around. "Distraction," she says as she emerges from the kitchen, tray in hand, settling it down on the coffee table. _

_ Dee scoffs. "I don't need to be distracted." _

_ "Okay," she says softly. She hands Dee her whiskey, which is accepted reluctantly, and takes a sip of her own. "This is surreal, you know," she says, shaking her head. "I've got Dee Reynolds in my apartment. I mean–" she gestures around, making a laugh erupt out of Dee. _

_ "Don't tell me that's the first Reynolds twin that's stepped foot in here," she says carefully, eyes glued on the Waitress' face for any changes. _

_ There aren't any. "It is," she confirms, honest. Dee looks into her glass. "I haven't seen Dennis since that night after graduation," she elaborates, as if Dee doesn't remember. "If you were wondering." _

_ "I don't give a shit, to be honest, Waitress," Dee says, at which the Waitress breathes a laugh out of her nose. "I don't care about the women Dennis has slept with. Not sure if even he does anymore, if he would just stop lying to himself." _

_ "You still don't know my name…" she laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. "Unbelievable." _

_ Dee shrugs. She looks at her from the corner of her eye: "Should I?" _

_ She pauses. Putting her glass down, she does the same to Dee's, sighing as she pulls it out of her hand and sets it on the table. "No," she clears her throat, shuffling closer. "No, you shouldn't." _

_ This is surreal. The Waitress was right; Dee could really use a distraction right now, something to take her mind off of the feel of another woman so close to her, the scent of her perfume clouding her senses, the femininity and security she exudes being up for grabs. She doesn't lean forward, and she doesn't lean away, and she's suddenly thinking about her back brace; when she'd had it, Dee felt as limited as she does in her adult life, and there's something poetic to be found in the fact – something about the unfathomable burden of adolescence and chronic insecurity, holding onto her back and waiting for the moment to take her down and swallow her up. But Dee's never been much of a poet. _

_ Surreally, the Waitress smiles at her. "How are you, Dee?" _

_ Dee blinks, the nervous tapping of her fingers audible in the almost silent room. "I've been fine," she says, unable to tell if it's the truth. Dee finds herself all the more content, if she's telling the truth, but never quite happy. It's not bugging her, per se – she's just fine. "I'm figuring myself out. I'm trying to… I don't know what I'm trying to do." _

_ "When do you think you're gonna find out?" _

_ Dee breathes in, breathes out. "If I knew, Waitress–" she stops herself, taking comfort in the fact the Waitress' arm is right behind her head, on the back of the sofa. "Soon, let's hope. I'm not… too good at this." _

_ "What, talking?" she jokes. _

_ "Yeah." _

_ It's nothing, and at the same time it's heavy, and the fact that it's out there puts a weight on her shoulders. The Waitress is watching, but Dee has managed to go past that; the ghost of her teenage self is over her shoulder, watching along, and maybe that's too much to bear. _

_ "Well, it's– I don't think anyone wants to hear what I have to say," she continues, finally opening. "I mean, I don't– I never know what to say. I always say the wrong things. I always  _ am _ the wrong things, I don't–" she stops, mulling it over. "I don't have a self. I don't know who the fuck I'm supposed to be." _

_ Her hands feel ice cold, but the iciness feels oddly comforting against her skin. The Waitress looks warm, even with the look of sorrow in her features. _

_ “You’re Deandra Reynolds,” she says, all so softly, and Dee seizes up. “Most of the time, you are a horrible human being, but when you want to–" she pauses for emphasis, until Dee finds it in her to look up, “you can be amazing. As much as you have it in you.” _

_ Dee doesn’t speak, but her bottom lip wobbles, and the Waitress shuffles the tiniest bit closer. _

_ “You let yourself become the shadow of bad people and never let yourself flourish past that, and that’s the worst thing you could do,” she continues, pursing her mouth. “You don’t believe in yourself enough to let yourself have your own story.” _

_ It’s hard to believe this is real, for a multitude of reasons, but the main reason is that Dee has just been slapped with the realization that she doesn’t just exist in her own plane of existence; the Waitress perceives her, just like everyone else, and she has an opinion about her, just like everyone else, and that is enough to send a tear sliding down her ice cold cheek. _

_ “I think you’re beautiful,” the Waitress continues. Her voice remains consistent as she says it, it doesn’t go lower – like Dee’s would, inevitably. Dee’s breath hitches, anyhow. “I think you’re gorgeous.” _

_ Dee, sloppily wiping a tear away with the side of her palm, sighs out a shaky breath. “You really think so?” she croaks, and she sounds so desperate to herself, so brittle – but, amazingly, she keeps steady eye contact, body language open. _

_ The Waitress laughs sadly, touches Dee’s hand with her cold one. “Are you kidding?” she says, and Dee rests her head on her hand pathetically. “You take my breath away.” And she leans in, so they’re on eye level – so that Dee has to look back. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” _

_ Dee’s so overwhelmed – body, spirit, and soul – because she can’t remember the last time she heard words similar to these, or any affirming words for that matter, and she aches for them. She’s always ached for them, because she never had them, and because everyone else seemed to have them one way or another – Mac thought Charlie was an incredibly talented musician, Charlie let Mac know how good he looked regularly, and practically everyone respected Dennis, for whatever reason. She was always the sore thumb, sticking out for everyone to see – the untalented elephant in the room that no one felt the need to comment on.  _

_ That’s part of the reason why Dee, with a final little sob, leans in and places a kiss on the Waitress’ yearning lips, hands on the sofa in fear of doing something wrong – because she would, and that was a given. The Waitress holds Dee’s face like it’s akin to a doll’s, porcelain and brittle and fragile, like she’s afraid of breaking her. Dee’s skin isn’t as thick as she’d want it to be.  _

_ Dee is beautiful, and her shirt slides off her body. _

* * *

She watches back, something sweet and familiar blossoming in her chest. She feels seen, for the first time in her life, and she feels loved, and she is being kissed, and she is being hugged – Dee feels like she exists, and she's proud of the things she's built.

"Yeah," the Waitress breathes, smoothing out Dee's eyebrow. "I remember." She brushes Dee's hair back, smiles fondly. "You've come a long way, baby."

"Don't start," Dee says, brushing her knuckles along the Waitress' spine. "You always do this. And then we end up crying and shit? It's terrible."

"I don't think so," she frowns, picking lint off of Dee's pillow. "And I've been thinking…"

"That's a first."

"No, seriously," the Waitress laughs, resting her head on Dee's chest. She's watching the side of the room, nervously gnawing at her lip, feigning nonchalance. "Maybe you should move in."

The spine brushing stops, and Dee glances down at her girlfriend. She's not looking back, just waiting, lip still stuck between her teeth.

"Move in?" she echoes, and the Waitress sighs. "Are you sure about this? I mean– That's a pretty big step."

"So?" the Waitress breathes, sitting up on her elbows to look up at her. "We've had…  _ this _ going on for years, Dee. I don't think this is out of the blue or anything."

"I guess not, but–" she stops, watching the Waitress' eyes. "How come you're asking now?"

"I love spending time with you," she says, simple and easy. "Is it too much to ask? If it is, I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Stop getting touchy," Dee hugs her close, feeling her sigh into her neck. "Well– Why here and not my place?"

The Waitress stares. "Are you joking? Live in your apartment so that I can have four ugly men barge in like it's nobody's business? I think I'll pass."

"That's my gang."

"Okay, okay," the Waitress says, hugging her tightly. "What do you say?"

Dee agrees after a lot of coddling – and of course she fucking does, she always knew she would – and she doesn't go to work, threatening to tell Dennis about Mac and Charlie's habit of regularly watching and jacking it to his sextapes if they didn't cover for her. The Waitress laughs, and Dee thinks that must be her favorite sound in the world.

* * *

Dee finishes her beer, sleepy eyes drooping pitifully, but she feels a sense of apathetic calm around her, anyhow. Thinking about your life is hard to do when the glory days are gone, she thinks, and that's why she – as a forty-two-year-old woman – refrains most of the time. The Waitress doesn't want to ever see her again, probably – the woman she's still in love with is out there wishing she never knew her – she finds herself growing more and more apathetic to herself and her surroundings – she barely has the energy to do anything anymore, with anyone.

The phone rings, and Dennis' name appears on the screen. She doesn't pick up.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! have a wonderful day.


End file.
